“So,” she said, “it’s true. At first I thought you might be an impostor, but I can see that isn’t the case.”
“The resemblance is remarkable,” her uncle said, stepping into the room behind her.
“Quite,” Solonge DuJardin said. She looked at her mother. “I hope this hasn’t distressed you too much, Maman.”
“I’m fine, daughter.”
“What a pleasant day this has been. The dear ladies I recruited did everything wrong, and I had to repack all the baskets myself—one apple to a basket, one orange—and I’ll probably have to distribute them myself as well. I had to dress down Mrs. Ashbury for being inexcusably tardy, and Father Phillipe had been at the sacramental wine again—I’m going to have to write a letter to his superiors, one is long overdue—and then I come home to find this charming situation confronting me. I don’t know how I cope.”
Admirably, I’m sure, I thought. Solonge DuJardin turned those piercing amber eyes on me, her mouth twitching with distaste.
“My uncle informs me that you are named O’Malley.”
“That’s right.”
She nodded, a wintry smile now curling on those thin lips. She looked extremely pleased with herself.
“I know who you are,” she said. It was an accusation, not a statement. A muscle twitched at the side of her left eye. “We may no longer be a part of the Grand Society, but we hear about everything that goes on in the Quarter. You’re the girl Julian Etienne brought back from the swamps.”
I nodded. Solonge DuJardin turned to her mother.
“He brought her out of the swamps and installed her in his house,” she informed her. “Then he made her his ‘ward.’ The entire Quarter was scandalized. She’s nothing but a little whore.”
She was still clutching the Bible.
“Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. Oh yes, I can see the resemblance. The same face, the same body, the same guile—” She was addressing me now. “My dear sister could always twist the men around her little finger—starting with Daddy. I—I tried my best to please him in every way I could, but she was his favorite. Always. Daddy never caught on to her wiles. Darling Clarisse could do no wrong. She took after him, had his features, his coloring. I was the dutiful one, but she was the one he loved.”
“I’m glad someone loved her,” I said.
“The men flocked around her, all of them, vying for her favors, plying her with flowers and presents and attention—how she reveled in it. She could have married a fortune, could have saved the family. I would have done anything for my father, anything, but Clarisse chose to enter into a—a thoroughly disgusting illicit relationship with a scoundrel. He got her pregnant. He abandoned her. She bore his bastard and ended up in the swamps. She got exactly what she deserved, and I’m glad.”
“What a fine Christian lady you are,” I said.
She didn’t miss the irony. She recoiled, incensed.
“I’m not a whore,” I told her, “and neither, thank God, am I a dried-up, frustrated, brittle old maid consumed with jealousy and hate. I pity you mademoiselle. I pity all of you. I can understand now why my mother ran away. How terrible it must have been growing up with a mother and a sister like the two of you. My mother was gentle and compassionate and caring. I may be a bastard, as you pointed out with such relish, but I was raised with love—something my mother had to find outside her home.”
Mathilde Dujardin gasped, looking like some outraged duchess. Her daughter puffed up like an adder, ready to explode. Guy Chevrier had sunk down onto the sofa, ashen, broken, spineless, as bad as they were in his way. I marched over to the door and then turned to face the three of them.
“When my ma died, I had but one thought—to get to New Orleans somehow and find her family. I wanted to have a place. I wanted to—to be a part. I wanted to belong. I came to the city, and I did find a place. A man not related to me at all took me into his home and made me his ward, not for the reasons you believe, dear Aunt, but because he is kind and good and caring, because he actually practices those virtues found in the Bible you’re clutching. He and his aunt and—and his brother have made me a part of their lives, and I belong.”
I paused for breath. All three of them were speechless.
“Coming here was indeed a mistake. I thought I might find people like Ma, kind and Christian and good, but I see that I was wrong. We have the same blood flowing in our veins, but—thank God I’m not like any of you. Thank God Ma got away from you all and found some happiness with the man she loved, however brief it may have been, and—and thank God I don’t have to see any of you ever again. How lucky I am to have a real family.”
Mathilde DuJardin was still gasping. Her brother looked at me with woeful eyes, wanting to say something to me, too spineless to do so. My aunt was ashen with outrage and looking more than ever like an adder with head thrust forward on her scrawny neck and amber eyes blazing.
“You—you impudent little tramp!” she spluttered. “How dare you speak to people like us in that manner. You—why, you act as though you think you’re better than we are—you, the bastard offspring of a highborn slut and her penniless paramour! You’re your mother’s daughter, all right.”
“I am indeed,” I said, “and I’m so very proud of it.”
I turned then and left the room. I could hear my grandmother and her daughter burst into exclamations of outrage as I moved down the corridor. The skinny Negro girl peeked out at me from the kitchen door as I passed, her eyes as large as saucers. She’d undoubtedly overheard everything. I felt numb as I walked to the front door. I hadn’t broken down. I had maintained my dignity throughout, despite the insults to me and to Ma. I was pleased with that much. I had been dignified, a lady. I hadn’t cried … Oh God, please let me get out of here before I start sobbing.
I opened the front door and stepped outside and pulled the door shut, and I could feel all the emotions I had repressed welling up inside. I could feel the tears, too. I stood there on the shady doorstep for a moment, gnawing my lower lip, willing myself to be strong. It was over. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all. Home. I must get home. I was trembling inside now, trembling badly, though I was still cool and calm on the surface. I closed my eyes, praying for the strength to go on, and then I went down the steps and started toward Canal. I still seemed to be in the middle of a dream. The girl in brown linen with the green velvet reticule swinging from her wrist reached the corner, moved across the street, moved on, and another me seemed to be watching her with curious objectivity.
Bastard … Whore … Tramp … It didn’t matter what they said. It didn’t matter what they thought. I was a good girl. I was. I wasn’t a whore. I was … I wanted to be a lady. I wanted to make Julian and Delia and … and Charles proud of me. I had been raised in the swamps and, yes, I was illegitimate, born out of wedlock, a bastard, that much was true, that I couldn’t deny, but Ma … Ma had raised me right and she had loved me and oh, how I had loved her. I mustn’t let go. I mustn’t. I couldn’t fall apart out here on the street. I must move on.
Canal was very busy. Vehicles of every description rumbled up and down the street, and the banquettes were thronging with pedestrians, fine-dressed folk and rowdy sailors and flashy women and Negro servants, all moving along with purpose and talking and laughing loudly and carriages clattered and horses neighed and I was in a daze, in a dream, moving against the colorful flow and trying to remember why I was here. A cab. Yes, yes, I must hire a cab. A burly sailor leered at me. I started. The brassy blonde in pink velvet on his arm burst into gales of shrill laughter. I stumbled. A plump Negro woman with a kind face took hold of my elbow and kept me from falling. I thanked her with my eyes and stepped to the edge of the street, searching for something. What? Why was I here? Dozens of vehicles clattered past and a closed carriage halted a few yards away from me and the driver looked familiar and the carriage door flew open and Charles moved toward me at a brisk stride, his expression furious.
“What in hell do y
ou think you’re doing!” he thundered.
He seized my arm and yanked it savagely and I stumbled again and then I was in the carriage and the door was closed and we were moving and he was yelling at me and I finally started to cry. I sobbed wretchedly and the tears spurted in a salty flood and he looked appalled and pulled me to him and held me and demanded to know what was wrong and somehow I managed to babble through the sobs and tell him about my visit to Conti Street and what they had said and how they had treated me and his strong arms tightened around me and held me closer and I rested my head on his shoulder and he murmured soothing words, holding me tightly, tenderly, and I managed to stop sobbing and whimpered quietly instead and finally grew silent and still. We rode on, down quiet streets now, and Charles Etienne still held me tight.
“Are you better now?” he asked finally.
I raised my head from his shoulder and nodded. “Don’t—please don’t tell anyone,” I pleaded. “I don’t want Julian and Delia to know.”
“I won’t tell.”
“I—I feel so humiliated. I—”
“Forget it, Dana.” His voice was stern. “I suppose it was something you had to do. It’s over now.”
“I—”
“It’s over. You don’t need them. You have Julian and Delia—and you have me.”
He held me, and I felt the strength in his arms and the warmth in his body. Gradually the hurt and humiliation receded and I felt something else, a tautness inside, a delicious torment, that same languorous ache I felt when I woke up after the dream. He held me, and I made no effort to free myself from that tight circle of arms. He was wearing a thin lawn shirt and I could feel its soft texture against my cheek and feel the smooth muscles of chest and shoulder beneath. The carriage rocked gently, moving slowly now. My eyelashes were moist, and an occasional tear still spilled down my cheek. Charles sighed a disgruntled sigh and shifted his position, tilting me slightly.
“They mustn’t see you like this,” he said gruffly.
“Charles—”
“Be quiet,” he ordered.
Keeping one arm curled around me, he began to brush the tears from my face, his fingertips blunt, rough, rubbing my skin. He looked down at me and I looked at his face and his expression was stern and his eyes were bothered, and I knew. He knew, too. Unable to stop myself, I reached up and ran my index finger along the full, smooth curve of his lower lip. His eyes held mine. His fingers rested on my cheek and then slipped down to curl around my jaw, tilting my head back even more. His lips parted. He grimaced then. He released me, even sterner now. I sat up straight and moved away from him and smoothed down my skirts, and we rode on in silence. Both of us pretended that nothing had happened, yet the knowledge was there between us. It was going to happen. We both knew that. It had been inevitable from the first. Now it was simply a matter of time.
Chapter Twelve
CHARLES GAVE JULIAN A MANLY EMBRACE, pounded him on the back, told him to stay out of trouble and departed for Etienne’s. I had another cup of coffee while Julian finished his breakfast, and then he went into his study to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything important behind. I joined him in the foyer a few minutes later. Julian told Pompey to let him know the moment Jasper returned, and Pompey nodded and left to locate Elijah. Julian sighed, resting his hands on his thighs, just as Charles did. During these past weeks of isolation in his study, he had lost weight, I noticed. In his black knee boots, gray breeches, and silky white shirt, he looked leaner, I thought, looked like an older, more mellow version of Charles. How I loved those silvering temples and that plump little roll of flesh beneath his chin, those compassionate eyes and that smile that curled so amiably on his full lips.
“That’s a fetching blue dress you’re wearing,” he said.
“It isn’t blue. It’s turquoise.”
“Not much of it on top,” he observed.
“Don’t be silly. It’s the latest fashion—and everything is nicely covered up.”
“Barely. That bloody dressmaker should be run out of town.”
I smiled. Julian smiled, too. The dress was really quite modest even if it did leave my shoulders and the swell of my bosom bare. Julian, as his aunt had observed, knew nothing about fashion. I had the feeling he would be much more comfortable if I had no bosom at all, wore pigtails and had freckles scattered over my cheeks.
His bags were by the door, the same bags he had been carrying the night I had spied on him in the clearing in the swamps. Well-worn, battered, they had seen many a trip, and they were bulging now. Julian put on his black and emerald striped satin waistcoat and, standing before the mirror in the foyer, began to adjust the emerald silk neckcloth under his chin, folding it carefully, tucking the loose ends into the top of his waistcoat. What a beautiful, gentle man he was. How grateful I was for all he had done for me. I helped him slip on the superbly tailored frock coat with its long tails and told him that I was going to miss him.
“Indeed?” he inquired.
“Of course,” I said. “I won’t pine every moment, but I’ll miss you just the same.”
He arched one brow. “You won’t pine? I’m crushed.”
“The house won’t seem the same with—with you and Delia both gone.”
Delia had left for Grande Villa yesterday morning in a swirl of hatboxes and parasols and breathless last-minute instructions. Neither she nor Julian knew of my visit to Conti Street, and they never would know, at least not from me. The hurt and humiliation of that visit still smarted inside, but I wasn’t going to let it get the best of me. My blood kin wanted to have nothing to do with me, but I had been taken in and given a home by this wonderful man, and I could only thank God for bringing him into my life. What would have happened to me if I hadn’t run into Julian in the swamps? I shuddered to think of it. Still standing before the mirror, he smoothed down his waistcoat and made a final adjustment to his neckcloth, then turned and sighed. I rested my hand on his arm for a moment, looking into those gentle brown eyes.
“I really will miss you, Julian,” I said.
“I’m touched,” he confessed. “You will keep up with your lessons,” he added sternly.
I nodded. “Mister Howard’s due this afternoon,” I said wearily. “He’ll bring a set of math problems for me to solve and a set of maps for me to color and he’ll drone on and on about long division and the climate of Southern Rhodesia and I’ll count the minutes until it’s time for him to leave. He’s really frightfully dull, Julian.”
“Have you learned your multiplication tables yet?” he asked.
“Almost.”
“How’s your long division?”
“Dreadful,” I confessed.
“Fractions?”
“What are they?”
He grinned. “It looks like Mister Howard will continue to come for quite some time.”
“Why do I need to know long division? I speak beautifully now. I have lovely manners and perfect deportment. I use good grammar and write a legible hand and read dozens of books every month. Mister Howard says I’m a dolt. He says he’s never had a slower student. He makes me feel—”
“Mister Howard is the best there is,” Julian told me. “When I get back, I fully expect you to be able to recite your multiplication tables and startle me with your prowess at long division.”
I made a face. Julian smiled again.
“Did you pack everything you need?” I asked.
“I think so—even an odd bottle of champagne or two.”
“What about your pistol?”
“I packed that, too. One of these days I might actually have to fire it. Most disconcerting thought.”
“Do be careful,” I said, quite serious now. “I—you could run into a wildcat or an alligator or—any number of things. I know the swamps, and I—I’ll worry about you.”
“Will you?”
There was a husky catch in his voice, and there was a curious thoughtfulness in his eyes as he looked at me. I remembered the night of the bal
l and the emotion-fraught moments in front of my bedroom door. Julian was remembering it, too, I sensed, and I knew he wanted to say something, wanted to stroke my cheek, touch my hair. He did neither. He merely looked at me, silent. It was an eloquent silence, and I waited, afraid, so afraid of what he might say.
Pompey came into the foyer then to inform Julian that the carriage was waiting, and Elijah came prancing in to carry the bags out. The moment was lost. I was vastly relieved, and I think Julian was, too. He sighed again and told Elijah to be careful with the bags and started toward the door, all bustle now. I followed him out to the front steps. Morning sunlight splashed all around us in brilliant pools. Julian checked his pocket to make sure he had his tickets and his wallet. I took his hand and squeezed it tightly.
“Watch out for the alligators,” I said.
“I intend to.”
“Snakes, too.”
“I will,” he promised.
“You’d better hurry now. The steamboat leaves at ten.”
“Ten sharp. You’re right. I’d better hurry.”
He frowned, checked his pocket again and hurried down the steps and climbed into the carriage and scolded Elijah, who had dumped the bags into an untidy pile on the seat. Elijah hung his head and looked properly chastened and then peeked up and asked if he could go to the docks, and Julian put on a look of weary forbearance and told the rascal to climb on. The lad bounded up onto the seat beside a sternly disapproving Jasper, who had just returned from taking Charles to work. I stepped to the carriage door, resting my hand on the open window.
“Do be careful, Julian,” I said.
“Dana—”
“Yes?”
“When I get back, there—there’s something we’re going to have to discuss. I think you know what I mean.”
They Call Her Dana Page 28